They called him a monster. A brute. A force of nature born in the dark and molded by pain.

But even monsters have something—or someone—they don’t let the world touch.

Bane stood in the courtyard of a crumbling villa deep in the spine of the Andes, arms crossed, muscles tensed like stone beneath his coat. The moonlight etched sharp lines across his mask, but his eyes weren’t on the mountains.

They were on her.

His wife moved like wind across glass—silent, lethal, beautiful in the way only death can be. She was all shadow and precision, blades hidden where most didn’t think to look. Trained in a dozen forms of killing. Master of more.

And his equal.

No vows. No rings. Just blood, fire, and a bond forged in war. She never spoke much—didn’t need to. Bane understood her in the way warriors understand silence: every breath, every glance, a language few dared to learn.

Tonight, she returned from a mission—scar across her cheek, satisfied gleam in her eyes, and a message carved into the blade she dropped at his feet.

Bane smiled beneath the mask.

Someone had threatened her.

They wouldn’t do it again.